M.H.

Out of my fernet flew moths,

heavenborn, began to fall,

mouldered hay,

pigfeed, winnowings,

mouldering haystacks.

I enquired of him:

Why do you put up with me?

Why have you made me,

conceived me?

From a distance screeching sounds were heard

of a whetstone sharpening

scythes.

The hay was being laid out in rows.

We loved one another.